A few months ago, I would never have imagined myself in a situation like this.
If someone had described it to me, I would have listened politely, nodded, and moved on. It would have sounded like something belonging to someone else’s life, someone else’s mind, someone else’s story.
And yet now it keeps returning.
Not as a sudden fantasy.
Not as a craving.
Not even as pleasure.
It simply appears.
In the middle of a workday.
While walking home.
In the few quiet seconds before sleep.
The idea of being there.
Nothing more.
Not the impact.
Not the instrument.
Not even the outcome.
Just being there.
Weeks before anything happens, the process has already begun occupying space inside my thoughts. Not because I force it to, but because it seems to grow on its own. Like a silent structure being built somewhere behind ordinary life. An invisible architecture slowly rearranging the landscape of my mind.
I catch myself imagining absurdly small details.
The temperature of the room.
The position of my hands.
The sound of a door closing.
The moment he enters.
The exact instant when everything stops depending on me.
And the strangest part is that I still don’t fully understand what I enjoy about it.
I try to analyze it.
I look for a clear answer.
I never find one.
I don’t think it is pain.
I don’t think it is control.
I don’t even think it is obedience.
The only thing that remains, every single time, is the same image.
Being inside his process.
Accompanying it.
Watching each decision connect naturally to the next.
Feeling that there is a direction he already understands and that I only glimpse from a distance.
There is something deeply calming about that.
As if, for a little while, the burden of interpreting myself disappears.
As if I can simply exist inside a structure that has already been designed.
And when I think about the instrument he will choose, my thoughts are not really about the object itself.
What stays with me is something else.
The feeling that even that choice belongs to a larger design.
That perhaps he already knows.
That perhaps it has already been decided.
That perhaps there is a complete logic behind every detail.
And my only responsibility is to arrive.
To wait.
As the days pass, another thought begins to take shape.
Breathing.
I find myself imagining it long before anything happens.
Not forced breathing.
Not a technique.
Simply breathing within his rhythm.
It is difficult to explain.
The idea feels completely natural.
So natural that it becomes strange.
Like a familiar word repeated until it loses its ordinary meaning.
I breathe every day.
But when I imagine breathing there, under his attention, breathing becomes something different.
Something visible.
Something present.
The air itself seems to become part of the process.
Sometimes I notice myself unconsciously synchronizing with an imagined version of that future moment.
Not because anyone told me to.
Not because there is an instruction.
Simply because the mind seems to move ahead of time.
As if it is already rehearsing stillness.
Perhaps that is what I struggle to describe.
Stillness.
Not physical immobility.
The other kind.
The one that appears when the need to constantly decide begins to fade.
The one that emerges when everything fits together.
When anticipating the next step is no longer necessary because someone else is holding the entire structure.
Then the obsession returns.
Not aggressive.
Not urgent.
Just constant.
A quiet presence.
An idea that keeps finding its way back.
There are still days left.
Nothing has happened yet.
And yet some part of me is already there, waiting in silence, watching the process slowly take shape around a certainty I still cannot fully name.
The neck I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
